The Rogue's Blush
by Hallianna
Summary: Varric and Hawke find each other, and it's all because of a damn book. (Crossposted a while back to Ao3.)


For the first time in years, Hawke was completely alone.

Bodahn and Sandal were out to dinner and the comedy the Kirkwall Players were debuting. Orana was visiting Merrill, her Mabari was asleep by Aveline's hearth after a long day of chewing on City Guard recruits, and Mother was visiting Carver at the Templar barracks. And she'd warned away her crew with dire threats of violence if they bothered her tonight. Even Varric had held out his hands in suppliance and replied, "You won't hear a peep from me, beautiful. The night's all yours."

Hawke had eyed him carefully then crooked a finger at him, leading him away from the rest of the group. She'd waited until they were out of earshot before rounding on him. "No questions, Varric? That's not like you at all."

He'd shrugged effortlessly, smiling. "What can I say? I know when to pick a fight, and when to walk away. If you want an evening alone, I say go for it. You've been traipsing around this town for months, knee-high in Qunari and raiders and Coterie. I think you deserve a little alone time."

Hawke had raised an eyebrow, still suspicious. "Really?"

"Yes, Hawke. Really." He'd patted her hand. "I'll make sure the rest of them don't come around."

"I already told them-"

Varric had raised a hand, cutting her off. "I know what you told them, but I also know them. At least one of them will wind up at your door tonight. I'll keep them busy." He'd fiddled with the ring in his left ear. "I've heard some rumblings that might tie to Bartrand. I might ask Fenris and Isabela to help me track down a few guys who've been seen taking crates into an abandoned Hightown mansion." A slow smile had spread over his face and he'd lifted her hand to kiss it. "And you should get away now, while no one is looking."

Varric had motioned her away and after a beat she'd retreated into the shadows, smiling and saying, "Thanks, Varric."

He'd returned the smile. "Any time, Hawke."

And now, everyone was gone. The silence around her was blissful and she relished it.

Hawke dumped her leathers in the corner of her bedroom, her knives in another, and then deposited a carefully wrapped bundle on her bed with a silent promise of later. Tonight, she was doing exactly what she wanted to.

She didn't want attention or presents or drinks on her birthday. She wanted the quiet and a warm bath and a little space and time carved out just for herself.

Maker help anyone who dared to knock on her door tonight.

* * *

Hawke couldn't stop the tiny moan that escaped her lips as she sank into the copper tub. The water was so hot she could hardly stand it, her skin reddening at the contact. The scent of vanilla and lavender filled her nose and instantly reminded her of the fields outside of Lothering where she and Bethany and Carver played as children. They would bring sprigs of lavender home for Mother. Mother would smile, gently take the willowy, fragrant stalks, and put them in a glass jar or earthenware vase and place it in the kitchen window. It was one of Hawke's favorite childhood memories. It certainly was better to remember Lothering as a place of copper colored wheat fields, horses, windmills, and good people than fire, ash, blood and the bodies of her friends and neighbors staring sightlessly at her as they fled the Blight.

Hawke shook her head, scattering those horrid thoughts. Don't get yourself lost, she told herself as she placed one foot, then the other, on the edge of the tub. Tonight is for you. It doesn't do well to dwell on what's done.

She sat like that for a long time, blissfully warm and submersed to her neck in the scented water. This went beyond mere relaxation, as she could actually feel her body loosening, like a coil that had been wound too tight for years and was finally being set free, little by little. Anders could heal her battle wounds, and she could bandage herself easily enough, but all those tight little spots - between her shoulder blades, just inside her right hip, near the last ribs on her left side - those needed special attention. And it was either a scalding hot bath or she paid for a massage at The Blooming Rose. And while a full body massage from Jethann came with a guarantee sure to put a smile on anyone's face, Hawke wasn't looking for that kind of comfort right now.

Hawke bit her lip, her head tilting backwards to rest on the edge of the tub as one hand moved down to the sore spot on her right hip. It was still bothersome, even in the scalding hot water. Her quick fingers pressed into the tight muscle and she bit down on a groan. Damn, she thought, I need to be more careful about guarding this side.

She'd taken a nasty hit the previous night and while it hadn't bled, the imposter guard's pommel strike landed on the already tender area with enough force to make her stumble backwards. And Varric, always watching out for her, had rushed to aide, pelting their enemies with an impressive bolt array before wrapping an arm around her waist and dragging her to safety. Hawke had barely a chance to catch her breath before Varric had shoved her against a wall and down to the ground, his golden brown eyes full of concern and fixated on her face.

"Ancestors, Hawke, what are you doing?" Varric had knelt at her side. "Did you miss the lesson on dodging in rogue school?"

She'd hissed at him as he'd pushed gently on her side. "Very funny." Pushing his hands away, she'd said, "I'll be fine. Aveline and Anders need our help."

The clatter of armor at her feet had them both looking up at a rather happy Mabari. Aveline had been right behind the war dog, followed by Anders. "It's done," Aveline had said, stopping to pat the animal on the head in congratulations. Beast had bounced around Aveline, barking before coming to sit at Hawke's feet again, and pushed the breastplate at his master with his nose.

"Oh, look, he brought you a piece of armor," Anders had intoned. "You'd almost think he was part cat, the way he drops presents at your feet, Hawke."

She'd shot the mage daggers with her eyes and he'd just smirked but he kept his distance. They'd had a row a while back and neither had recovered from it completely. Anders thought all mages should be free from templar and Circle control, and Hawke wasn't completely convinced that mages set loose weren't signing their own death warrants. Heated words were exchanged and they'd both apologized in the aftermath but it felt like a line had been drawn. For Anders, if you weren't fully with his cause, you were his enemy. Hawke feared that her caution in the mage-templar issue had earned her his permanent disdain, maybe even his wrath.

And if she wasn't around enough to keep an eye on him, who would make sure he was eating and not overdoing it on the lyrium potions? Who else would square off with his anger and his crankiness in the hole he called a home in Darktown?

Stop it, she chided again. Thinking on all this right now will just ruin the evening.

So Hawke stayed in the tub until the water turned lukewarm, thinking on nothing more than the way the evening sun lit up her room like a window at the Chantry, idly watching dust motes float through the air.

It was pure and utter bliss.

When she felt her eyes growing heavy, Hawke hauled herself out of the tub and dried off. She barely bothered to tie the belt of her robe - why should she? All the windows were shuttered, the house was locked up, and she was alone.

So beautifully alone.

She took the time to listen as she walked back into her bedroom and noted how the wind made the whole house feel alive. As though the stone and wood were breathing with each gust. Hawke hummed to herself as she brushed fingers over the full bookshelves on her way to her bed. If this is what peace feels like, I'm long overdue.

She hesitated, glanced down at the bed, then hurled herself face first into the goosefeather mattress. She chuckled as the bed gave way under her weight and she inhaled, smelling the astringent sharpness of the soap Orana used. And if she didn't have other plans, she might have fallen asleep right there.

But as luck would have it - or more like a bribe placed into the right hands - she had the best birthday present she could give herself.

Hawke pushed to her hands and knees and looked down at the plain package sitting near the edge of the bed. With near reverence, she unwrapped the twine and brown paper and pulled out a leather-covered book.

"The Rogue's Blush," she read out loud, grinning. "Oh, Varric, I bet you've outdone yourself this time."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Varric, it was Bartrand."

Varric shook his head, eyeing the hire-sword closely. "I don't doubt you saw someone going into that house, but the chances of it being my nug-humping older brother is - "

"Varric, come on! You know me," Yevin interrupted, shuffling his feet as Varric shot him a heated glare. "I mean, I've never done you wrong. I'm telling you...it was definitely Bartrand. Looked worse for wear, he did."

Varric closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then looked closely at Yevin before saying, "All right, let's say it was Bartrand. Then I've got another job for you, and this time, make sure you aren't seen."

Yevin nodded, his rather bulbous head bobbing up and down. Varric wanted to reach out and steady the man's scrawny neck; so emphatic was his head-shaking, Varric had an irrational fear the man would nod his head clean off his shoulders.

There's a story, the man who lost his head...literally.

Varric gave Yevin directions and a handful of coin and sent the man on his way. "Just bloody great," he grumbled to the empty room. "My dear, sweet brother is back in Kirkwall. I should tell Hawke."

He was halfway to Hightown when he remembered. "Shit," he growled, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Andraste's flaming ass, I can't interrupt Hawke."

"I'm sure she won't mind," a voice said to his left. Varric had Bianca out and pointed at the shadows before the figure emerged from the darkness.

"Damn, Choir Boy, I should have been able to see you standing over there," Varric muttered, lowering Bianca so her deadly point was tipped to the ground.

Sebastian blinked, then smiled. "I'm assuming you're going to make a joke about the armor again." He spread his hands wide in front of him. "I'm not saying it's the best choice for lurking in the shadows, but I retired my leathers years ago."

Varric tried hard not to roll his eyes. He liked Sebastian but the man painted a target on himself with that damn armor and ability to land feet-first in the middle of a joke and not get it. So he just waved a hand at the Chantry brother before turning on his heel to head back to Lowtown.

"I thought you needed to speak with Hawke," Sebastian said, falling in step with the other man. "Her house is the opposite direction."

Varric stopped and sighed before saying, "I promised Hawke no one would bother her tonight. She wanted some time alone. I forgot. So I'm headed back to The Hanged Man and Corff's barely-drinkable ale."

Sebastian gestured behind him. "I was just on my way to see Hawke as well, Varric. If we go together, surely she wouldn't -"

"Oh, she definitely would."

"You didn't let me finish what I was saying."

Varric held a hand up to stop the man's chatter. "No need. I know exactly what you were going to say." He put that hand against his chest and said in an affected mockery of Sebastian's lilting voice, "But surely Hawke wouldn't turn us out. We have matters of import to discuss with her and she can't ignore her responsibilities." He dropped the hand and glared at Sebastian. "Let me answer that for you. Yes, for one night, she can ignore the fact that this entire city wants something from her. Just for one night, Hawke can pretend she lives a normal, happy life." His stare grew hard, heated. "We owe her that much, don't you think?"

Sebastian stared at Varric, brow pinched, before nodding once. "You're right, Varric. You're absolutely right." He pulled a letter from the pouch on his side and handed it to the dwarf. "Since you'll see her before I will, can you give Hawke this? And tell her...just tell her it's important I speak with her as soon as possible."

Sebastian bowed slightly as Varric took the letter. Varric looked down at the Vael family crest, stamped in red wax and slightly off center on the outside of the folded paper. And when he looked up, Sebastian was gone, swallowed by the shadows he'd walked out from.

"The man's a bloody menace," Varric grumbled, stuffing the letter into his coat and walking back toward Lowtown.

Varric never made it back to The Hanged Man. He was ten minutes from the warm light and stale air of the pub when he encountered Bodahn and Sandal walking back to Hightown after their night at the theater.

"I'm afraid we're earlier than expected," Bodahn said. "Mistress Hawke thought we wouldn't be home for hours yet, but the play was, er, interrupted, I'm afraid."

Sandal clapped his hands and said, "Turnips!"

Varric raised an eyebrow and Bodahn gave a sheepish smile. "It turns out several of the actors came on stage a bit drunk and the crowd wasn't terribly pleased by their performance."

Varric had to chuckle at that. "No, I imagine the crowd was just as drunk as the actors," he said, eyeing Sandal's turnip-splattered tunic, "and since turnips aren't exactly prized foodstuffs in Kirkwall, they had no problems throwing them."

Bodahn nodded. "Yes, indeed, messere. Yes, indeed. We were lucky to get out of there before things got ugly." He brushed a protective hand over Sandal's arm. "If you're headed back to The Hanged Man, could we use your rooms to clean up? Sandal took a turnip to the head and I want to make sure he's okay."

Varric waved them down the stairs. "Let's get the two of you to my suite before it gets any darker."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Varric realized he had lost possession, temporarily, of his suite. He'd gotten Bodahn and Sandal to The Hanged Man and ushered them into his rooms, and it had taken the dwarves no time at all to clean up and immediately fall asleep at his table.

"Sod it all," he said quietly, watching Bodahn snore. He tapped Sandal on the shoulder, waking the boy, and pointed to his bed. "You shouldn't sleep at the table," he said.

Sandal stared at him for a moment, then nodded. The two of them got Bodahn up just enough to shove the man into bed, and Sandal followed, curling up on top of the blankets and shutting his eyes.

And with that, Varric saw no choice. He was out a bed, unless he wanted Isabela's. Not for all the coin in Kirkwall, he thought as he pushed his way, again, through the crowded pub floor. So he walked back to Hightown, mumbling to himself about dwarves and Chantry brothers.

When he finally got to Hawke's door, night had fallen like a hush over Kirkwall. With the heat of the day gone, he was shivering as he took out the key Hawke had given him months ago.

She's going to kill me, he thought. Maybe I should yell or something, so she knows I'm here. She's probably asleep. The last thing I want is to take a pommel to the head because she thought I was a thief.

Well, I am a thief. Just not...Andraste's tits, this was not supposed to happen.

Hawke's estate was eerily silent, cloaked in long-fingered shadows that made Varric shiver. He looked around for a sign of Hawke - empty glass, lit candle, and saw the only sliver of light was coming from upstairs.

"Great, more stairs. Because I haven't climbed enough vertical ground for one night." Varric rubbed his eyes and walked up the cursed stairs.

The heel of his boot hit the top stair when a noise - low, breathy, more like a gasp than a groan - made Varric stop cold. The first noise was followed swiftly by a second, just as throaty but a little louder.

Varric shook his head. Must be hearing things. That, or Hawke's estate is haunted and she wasn't kidding about finding cabinet doors open and chairs rearranged.

The third time he heard the noise, he was at the head of the hallway to Hawke's room.

And it was unmistakable.

A man never forgot the sound of a woman in the throes of passion, especially not Varric Tethras.

His eyes widened and he backpedaled a little, hand shooting out to grab the wall. That was definitely Hawke, the sounds were absolutely coming from her bedroom, and Varric couldn't help but react.

His damn imagination ran off, full tilt, like a gleeful little son of a bitch. And he was picturing Hawke - a naked, flushed, writhing Hawke - sprawled on her bed with a phantom lover looming over her.

Stroking her. Claiming her. Making her gasp and groan and pant.

"Gotta get out of here," he said, willing away the low throb building in his belly. "Hawke would murder me if she -"

His flight stopped before it started. "Varric," he heard Hawke moan. "Oh, Maker, Varric."

For the first time in years, Varric was speechless. His body, however, had quite a bit to say.

And his feet had a mind of their own. As quietly as he could, he walked through the hallway, a part of him screaming that he shouldn't be doing this….

He stopped outside Hawke's room, one hand on her door, the other clenched at his side. I should not be doing this. I have to ….go. Now. Leave, Varric, before Hawke finds you and decides you'd make a better masthead on Isabela's ship than a friend.

"Varric, please…."

It was wrong, he was wrong, this was wrong. And so he fled, back out into the cold Kirkwall night and all the way to Lowtown, where there were no human rogues named Hawke to make him lose his head.

* * *

Hawke took her time the next morning. She'd slept soundly and awoke to a beautiful, chilly morning, a fresh pot of tea, and her partially finished book. She glanced at the leather tome a few times while she dressed, smiling while remembering why she didn't finish Varric's latest novel last night.

 _Thank the Maker I was alone, the things Varric writes…_

She grinned, slid her blades into their holsters, and yelled goodbye to Orana as she headed out the door, a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip the only thing on her schedule.

She met Bodahn and Sandal on her journey to Lowtown and sent them home, not wanting to know why Sandal had mashed turnip stuck to his trousers.

"Oh, messere," Bodahn shouted at her retreating back. Hawke spun around and he said, "Varric was looking for you last night. But he didn't want to interfere with your evening in, so I left him a note this morning to let him know if I saw you, I'd send you his way."

She thanked Bodahn and walked on, passing by merchants selling pastries and fish, the two scents not mingling well. She stopped to admire a handaxe and run her hand over some fetching leather boots, but now she had a mission. If Varric was looking for her last night, but never showed up at her door, it must have been important.

Not important enough to interrupt her alone time, thank the Maker for that, but Varric wouldn't have made the journey to Hightown for just any "average day in Kirkwall" problem.

Shopping trip set aside, Hawke wormed her way through the throngs of people in the Lowtown market and pushed open the door to The Hanged Man.

The smell hit her like it always did, sour and raw with a tinge of despair, and she took a deep breath. There was nothing worse than the smell of spilled ale mixed with body odor and vomit. The unique olfactory experience that is The Hanged Man, she could hear Varric say.

She made her way up the stairs, dodging the snoring man draped over a chair just inside the hallway, but stopped when she heard an unfamiliar noise. Hand gripping her dagger, she slid against the wall, a door down from Varric's, and waited.

It sounded like a groan, laced with pain. Maker's breath, how much did he drink last night? I've warned him about trying to outdrink Isabela.

She shook her head, put her key in the door, and pushed inside.

The sound came again, louder, deeper, building from a murmur into a slow crescendo.

And Hawke stopped dead in her tracks, snapping a hand out to catch the door from banging.

That was NOT a sound of pain.

Short breaths, a gasp, a low moan. And then she heard, "Hawke."

Just shy of a whisper, that one word….her name, said on the end of a breath. Color rose in her cheeks but she couldn't move.

She didn't want to move.

Warmth spread through her and the hand gripping the door tightened. "Hawke. Oh gods…"

Hawke licked dry lips and fought to keep her breathing under control. Was he...imagining her with him?

The thought struck Hawke dumb and she closed her eyes, her breath coming in pants as she pictured Varric on his bed, touching himself. Stroking, pinching, pulling...and saying her name while he chased pleasure with his own hands.

Need to leave, can't think straight.

 _Leave before he catches you._

Hawke turned and fled, not caring her cheeks were red and her hands were shaking. She didn't stop until she reached her home, until she ran up the stairs to her room and slammed the door shut so she could press back into the sun-warmed wood.

And in her haste, she'd forgotten to be careful with Varric's door. It had a tendency to bang, its hinges kept well-oiled by Varric so he knew when someone unwelcome was entering.

Or in this case, a very welcome someone leaving.

* * *

The sound of his door slamming made him bolt upright. He'd been so close, sweating and panting while he imagined Hawke's softer, smaller hands on him.

Whoever interrupted him was getting a bolt in the face by a very frustrated, very naked dwarf.

But he found no one in his rooms, only a few papers scattered by the door slamming and the scent of vanilla hanging in the air.

Only Hawke had a key and the door didn't look like it'd been picked. Varric closed his eyes and breathed in. He knew that smell. It was one of the ways he could tell Hawke was approaching him without seeing her. And the boot print left in the dust on his floor was hers - he knew that tread well, too.

Varric cursed a blue streak, the warmth leaving his body as he pulled on his clothes with shaking hands. Hawke had been here, had heard him groaning her name as he stroked himself to orgasm.

"Maker's ruddy ass cheeks," he growled, flinging Bianca none too gently over his shoulder. "Doesn't this just sod it all."

The one thing he'd ever lied to her about, the one thing he'd ever stashed away from her sight, and now Hawke knew. Knew her best friend, her confidant, the one person who didn't take anything from her didn't just carry a torch for her - he'd bloody well swallowed it, lest he be consumed.

And she'd caught him pleasuring himself, her name on his lips, coloring his fevered day dreams with the scent of her hair and the sound of his name breathed out on a moan.

Varric was torn - if he pretended he knew nothing of her invasion, it would be awkward. Knowing Hawke, she'd studiously avoid him for a time, then show up days or a week later, all smiles and jokes and they'd go on like normal.

But it would never be normal again, would it? This whole she-knows, he-knows situation had him grasping for his perfectly timed wit and canny schemes, only to come up empty handed.

And that did sod it all, because the only option he saw now was to go to Hawke, talk to her.

 _This isn't one of your stories, Varric. If it had been, Hawke wouldn't have run away._

"Fuck," he said to the empty room, the word echoing.

And he headed to Hightown.

Sandal opened the door after Varric knocked twice. "Is she here, Sandal?"

The boy nodded, smiling brightly. Sandal pointed up the stairs and Varric's heart beat faster as he remembered climbing those same stairs last night. But the house was silent, still as late morning light darted across the stone floor.

Varric swallowed hard, his throat burning and his hands sweating. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Sebastian's letter, handing it to Sandal. The dwarf scampered off into the dimly lit study, and Varric was alone.

"Varric?"

Varric snapped his head up and saw Hawke standing at the top of the stairs, peering down at him. Their eyes met. To her credit, she didn't blink, didn't flush, just waved him up the stairs.

He followed her shadow as she disappeared down the hall and into her room. Varric stood in the doorway and noted the papers strewn around her desk, the partially open chest next to her wardrobe, and the neatly made bed.

And standing to the side by the fireplace, was Hawke. Her green eyes glowed as she watched him and he felt like she was scrutinizing him, soaking in every detail.

Varric could almost hear the walls she was hurriedly building - trying to save herself embarrassment, or not wanting to look weak? Needy?

Hell, now you're projecting. He sighed, closing the door behind him and walked over to her.

Her eyes widened as he approached but she didn't move. Her mouth was a tight, thin line and he heard her swallow hard. The tight line of her spine and the clench of her hands would have warded him off any time. Not now.

Varric had thought of a million things to say to Hawke on his long journey up from Lowtown. Apologies mostly, but there were a few badly-penned jokes and even a line or two of refute all balled together.

And she was standing feet from him, radiating anxiety. He didn't want to be the cause of any distress, it pained him to hear her shallow breaths and the rustle of her clothes as she shifted uneasily.

Her sharp gasp as he reached for her hand and tugged her to him almost made Varric smile. Instead, he murmured her name and brushed a hand down the side of her face.

Varric didn't get the chance to say another word. Hawke crushed her mouth against his, her hands sliding around his neck and into his hair.

* * *

The taste of her made him dizzy.

 _The feel of his hair wrapped around her fingers made her shiver._

He didn't want to let go.

 _She wrestled for control of the kiss, warring against his hands and his mouth in a battle she was glad to lose._

The bed didn't protest under their combined weight. He kicked the satiny cover back, needing purchase.

 _Hawke laughed as one of his boots got stuck in the blanket, earning her a wink. She reached down to help but the blanket slipped to the floor and then he was right there, amber and candle wax and leather and rough, warm hands._

The same scent that had tortured him, lured him, filled his senses as he slid up her body. He whispered things, caressed bared skin, and slid inside.

 _She bid farewell to the cares and the burdens she bore, and let him consume her._

It had never been better to burn.

* * *

Varric waited until Hawke cracked an eye open at him before smiling. "Good morning."

She smiled back, then spotted the book in his hand. "Shit."

Varric's laughter echoed in the room. "I was going to ask which part you enjoyed the most, but I'm guessing from the state of pages forty-two through forty-six, you found that particular scene rather enjoyable."

Hawke clamped a pillow over her head, groaning. Varric nudged her with his knee until she looked up at him. "Now, now, it's not that bad. After all, if my writing can make a woman co-"

He didn't finish his sentence. Hawke lunged at him, sending pillows flying.

The book landed on the floor, forgotten in a heap of blankets. 

* * *

It wasn't found until late that night, when Hawke reached down to scoop it up and hand it to Varric. "You better finish what you started."

Varric scoffed, drug a hand through his limp hair. "I'm pretty sure I did...a few times."

Hawke smirked. "You act like you did all the work."

"What would you call the last time?"

That got him a sly smile. "A repeatable offense?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to have to remember that one."

"You better not."

"Hawke, come on. You know my best inspiration comes from real life. What will I write about if I can't write about you?" He wrapped an arm around her waist, snuggling close to her. "Just imagine what I'll write about now."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Varric kissed her cheek, a gentle whisper of lips that made Hawke smile. She pushed the book at him again. "Now, come on."

He tsked at her persistence but opened the book and began reading to her.

A few days later, a revised edition of The Rogue's Blush was sent to the printer. All but one of the original copies were found and dumped in a chest, which was locked away in the dank cellars of the Hawke estate.

The original story didn't have much merit, a thing of folly and blades and rampant bedsport, but the new version was lauded as a true original, a tale of daring and confusion and love. There was even some talk that the Kirkwall Players wanted to produce it for the stage.

And if asked about the inspiration behind the story, Varric would just smile, his amber eyes lighting up as he replied, "Let's just say the story was whispered to me late one night when I thought everything was lost."


End file.
